


Estranged

by jvo_taiski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Issues, Fighting, Hook-Up, M/M, Slytherin Percy Weasley, Study Buddies, War, they have some cute moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27608764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Whether he likes it or not, Percy's a Slytherin. And whether Marcus likes it or not, Percy looks good in green.Percy and Marcus, through school and the war
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Percy Weasley
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	Estranged

**Author's Note:**

> had this sitting in my drafts lets go  
> Slytherin Percy Weasley is kind of life ngl  
> it's where he belongs

“You’re a Weasley.”

“Well fucking spotted.”

Marcus is startled. He meant his words to come out harsh, scathing, with a sneer, but they came out more curious. He expected the Weasley to be scared of him anyway, to flinch or something, or even try stand up with the Weasley defiance, but he’s not doing either. He’s just bitter, and resigned. And he certainly wasn’t expecting such a harsh curse word to come out of his mouth. It sounds jarring on the young Weasley’s tongue, grating in his silver-clipped tones and it hits Marcus like a backhand to the face.

Percy Weasley ignores everyone around the Slytherin table, all the jeering and the odd looks and even the congratulations and stares straight ahead like he’s above everyone. It pisses Marcus off, because whether he likes it or not, he’s one of them now.

***

He thinks Percy might be bullied for being a Weasley and he’s right. He’s also bullied by the rest of the school for being a Slytherin and for some reason, it bothers Marcus. And it really doesn’t help that he’s lanky and awkward and scrawny and wears stupid glasses and is a huge fucking nerd.

So it’s really not surprising when he sees a shock of red hair being dragged into a corridor in the first week of school. He runs to do something, maybe help (he doesn’t stop to wonder why) but by the time he’s rounded the corner, the two 3rd years are on the floor and Percy Weasley is calmly putting his wand back in his pocket, seemingly unaffected.

Marcus gulps and walks on by.

***

It’s somewhere around Marcus’ 5th year that he notices that green suits Percy a lot better than red. It clashes with his hair a lot less and makes his startling blue eyes stand out from behind those horn-rimmed glasses. Marcus wants to rip them off. Both the glasses and the robe.

***

And of course it doesn’t fucking help that Percy Weasley is infuriatingly good at everything he does, including Quidditch. Not that he plays Quidditch on a regular, or he’d have been on the team a damn long time ago. And not that it should be a surprise, either. Every Weasley that’s been through the school in the past decade has been on a Quidditch team.

But then again, every Weasley in history has been in Gryffindor and Percy’s still sitting there in the Quidditch robes he must have borrowed from Pucey (there’s a big green 4 on the back), leaning back, legs lazily spread in a way that makes his bulge look very flattering in the tight Quidditch uniform. Adrian’s broom is balanced over his shoulder.

“Weasley? What are you doing here?”

He hesitates a moment, before reassuming his usual expression that casually reminds everyone in the vicinity that they’re a waste of his time. “Waiting. To play Quidditch.”

“With who?”

“I think you’ll find that’s none of your business, Flint. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

He stands up and strolls out to the Quidditch pitch, leaving Marcus scowling at his ass that really looks entirely too good in Adrian’s uniform. There are two identical redheads already on the pitch, dressed in Quidditch gear that clashes garishly with their hair.

Percy? Training with his brothers? Training with _Gryffindors?_

And more importantly, why the fuck did Percy always say he was too busy for ‘frivolities like Quidditch’ when he was really fucking good at it?

Well, ‘really fucking good’ was an exaggeration because he was obviously out of practise, but some of the annoying natural Weasley Quidditch talent must have come through because he was still better than Marcus’ bloody reserve chasers.

Marcus corners him when he gets back into the changing rooms an hour later, trying to ignore the way Percy’s cheeks are flushed red from the wind and exertion and his normally-perfect hair is all messed up and his eyes have a bit of a glint in them. “You never told me you could play Quidditch.”

“Anyone can play Quidditch,” he says off-handedly.

“You were helping Gryffindors train,” Marcus accuses, giving him a light shove so Percy Weasley would actually spare him a second and _look at him, goddammit._

His expression turns careful, guarded. “They’re my brothers.”

“I thought they hated you,” he says, unthinking, and Percy stills and clenches his jaw, Quidditch jersey halfway over his head. Marcus can’t help noticing that the robes fit him better than they fit Adrian, for sure.

“They’re my brothers,” he repeats. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m behind schedule and the library closes in an hour.”

He sweeps away without another word and without another second of his day to spare with Marcus Flint.

***

“You alright, Weasley?”

“Just fine,” he snaps waspishly, slamming his book shut with a bang. His right leg is fidgeting and Marcus wants to reach out and stop it, and maybe also the way his fingers are drumming impatiently while he’s at it. Marcus doesn’t know when he found himself in the same social circles as a fucking Weasley, but Percy’s close enough friends with Adrian Pucey to the point where they share clothes, and Pucey and Terence Higgs have been friends since childhood and Marcus is kind of fond of them, not that he’ll ever admit it.

And now he’s sitting in a common room inquiring about a Weasley’s health and said Weasley is glaring at everything, in a tetchier mood than usual.

“Marcus is right,” says Adrian, squinting at Percy. “For once. What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh nothing,” Percy replies, the sarcasm flying off his tongue so hard that his voice actually trembles a bit. “Nothing at all, except there’s some monster, from _Slytherin house_ no less, gallivanting around this bloody school petrifying people, and my little brother is best friends with Harry fucking Potter and my little sister has been drifting around the school without a bit of life in her eyes. And my girlfriend’s fucking muggle-born.”

There’s a bit of a stunned silence. To Marcus’ shock, perfect Percy, prefect Percy, cool, calm and collected no matter what, is on the verge of a fucking breakdown right in front of his eyes.

“And,” he continues, voice wavering. “And we’re all going to fail Defence Against the Dark Arts because our Professor is a fucking git.”

“Alright Percy,” Adrian leans forwards and drags the heavy textbook away from him. “Enough studying for tonight. You’re done, mate.”

Percy announces he’s going to bed and storms away without another word, and Marcus swears he sees him wipe moisture from his eyes as he heads up the staircase. And again, Marcus is struck by the sense that Percy Weasley does not belong in Slytherin house despite the way that the colour green does wonders for his hair.

Because certain things shouldn’t be spoken about in the darkness of the Slytherin common rooms because certain things don’t fit in, and worries about Gryffindor siblings and muggle-born girlfriends shouldn’t be voiced out loud when nobody else can understand.

***

Percy gets into another fight with his younger brothers and his girlfriend gets petrified and he wanks off Adrian Pucey in the Quidditch changing rooms. Marcus knows because he was unlucky enough to walk in on them.

“Don’t you have a _girlfriend?”_ he gripes, too stunned to feel angry or jealous (because really, Marcus is used to seeing Percy’s eyes softening when he looks at somebody else) and too stunned to even cover his eyes and block Adrian’s junk from sight.

“Used to,” says Percy primly, adjusting the painful-looking bulge in his pants. Marcus knows him well enough by now to know he’s trying very hard to keep his voice even. “She’s pretty much a block of stone now.”

***

He’s expecting to see Percy Weasley sitting on a window-sill on the 7th floor instead of doing his head boy rounds at midnight, but he’s not expecting him to accept the muggle death-stick Marcus offers him.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” he says, half-heartedly.

Marcus shrugs and swings his legs next to Percy’s. “You’re not going to take points away from your own house.”

He frowns. “I might. You know I do.”

“You’re also smoking, and not doing your prefect rounds. And you haven’t reported me to Filch yet for being out of bed past curfew.”

Percy snorts a dry laugh and leans back, closing his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s smoked, for sure. Marcus watches the little glowing stub, still in Percy’s fingers, and watches the smoke drift past his face and out of the open window into the clear, dark air. He looks weary.

“Why the hell are you in Slytherin?” he blurts out. Six years in the same classes and Marcus still doesn’t know.

Percy opens his eyes. Passes the cigarette back to Marcus and settles back down, moon reflecting off his glasses. “I don’t know.”

“You were a hatstall, weren’t you?”

“Not quite. It took four minutes and sixteen seconds to sort me.”

He’s dodging the question, and Marcus knows it. Because there’s no way Percy Weasley hasn’t thought about it every day for the past 6 years of his life.

“I wanted to be in Gryffindor,” he says, finally. “I asked to be. The hat wanted to put me in Ravenclaw, but I was adamant. Then it ended up putting me _here_.”

Percy still says _here_ like it’s nasty in his mouth, even after all this time. It makes sense, what when literally everyone else in his family wears that lurid red with pride, and when his relationship with his siblings seems to be non-existent these days.

“You’re ambitious,” supplies Marcus. “Going to be Minister of Magic someday.”

Percy laughs again, and it’s warmer and makes Marcus smile a little. “That’s the dream.”

It’s a while before Marcus finds the courage to speak again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “About Penelope.”

“Don’t,” Percy shuts his eyes again. “It’s not like she’s dead. We just broke up anyway.”

Marcus is surprised, but he thinks back to the harsh way Percy was jerking Adrian off and supposes it makes sense. Percy Weasley is a lot of things but a cheater is not one of them.

“Why?” the question slips off his tongue before he can rein it in. “Sorry—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Marcus studies the weary lines around his mouth, set from his constant frown. His fingers, long and slim like the rest of him, are delicate as they shake ash from the tip of the cigarette.

He remembers the way Percy would smile softly when he spoke to Penelope, how he even stopped taking notes for a solid five minutes in History of Magic to stare at her, and the way he laughed and his hands drew patterns in the air when he spoke to her. Not a lot of people understand Percy and not a lot of people make him laugh like that. Marcus can’t help the startlingly honest words that leave his mouth. “She didn’t deserve you anyway, mate.”

“What, because she was muggle-born?” he asks, harshly.

“No,” he blushes. “Nothing like that. She didn’t appreciate you as much as she should’ve.”

“No, it was me not appreciating her. I spent too much time studying, not enough time with her, apparently. I guess I fucked up. Then I let her leave and I can tell myself it’s because she deserves better as much as I want, but in reality it’s because I was too stupid and prideful to run after her and just say sorry. And then she was fucking petrified.”

And the harsh word coming from a silver tongue still sets Marcus on edge, even after so many years. Percy tosses the stub of the cigarette out of the window and to Marcus’ horror, his eyes actually look kind of shiny. Marcus panics and reaches out a hand to cover his knee, in a hollow form of comfort. “It’s not your fault.”

“Shut the fuck up, Flint.”

He does shut the fuck up, even if he doesn’t leave. Percy’s problems are separate and different and Marcus doesn’t know what to say to him because he’ll never understand, not when none of his friends or siblings are in danger, and not when he fits into Slytherin like a second skin. He does hate Penelope Clearwater though, because whatever Percy says, she didn’t deserve him when she took so many precious minutes of Percy Weasley’s time for granted, and when all Marcus gets are hidden moments when Percy’s got nothing better to do.

***

“You’re failing transfiguration. And charms,” says Percy slowly.

Marcus scowls. “And?” He really doesn’t need to be reminded of his inadequacies this early in the morning, and he really doesn’t want a lecture from Head Boy Percy when he knows he’s going to get one from McGonagall anyway.

Adrian is busy crowing at Terence because he’s beaten him in potions even though he cheated, and his top button is undone as usual, displaying the fading red mark there.

“Are you and Adrian still banging, then?” he asks Percy, who looks like he’s been slapped in the face by the sudden change in topic.

“What? No. It was a one-time thing, he’s not even gay. And you’re failing transfiguration and charms.”

“I don’t care,” he snaps, noticing the tight fit of Percy’s shirt around his shoulders and wonders if it’s Adrian’s.

“You should.”

“Why?”

“It’s good to have qualifications,” says Percy, and Marcus really can’t be arsed to hear yet another fucking lecture about his future or he’ll punch someone, so he starts walking away.

“Marcus! Flint! You get back here.” His fingers are slim and cold on his wrist and Marcus determinedly focusses on a spot somewhere to his left.

“What?”

“I can help. With those subjects. With studying.”

“But—”

And it’s definitely Marcus’ imagination because the tips of Percy’s ears seem to be kind of red. “I know you want to go into professional Quidditch but it doesn’t hurt to pass,” he rushes out.

And suddenly, Marcus is stunned speechless because Percy fucking Weasley, head boy, top of the year as usual, and always so busy, is making space for _Marcus Flint_ in his jam-packed schedule. And suddenly Marcus realises he’s well and truly fucked because Percy’s never spared him a minute of his busy, busy day before and he might be falling head over heels.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” says Percy, and Marcus doesn’t know what he would have done, run up and hugged him or something stupid probably, but his idiotic younger twin brothers are setting off fireworks and Percy’s already strode off to yell himself purple.

***

Percy’s knuckles are whiter than he’s ever seen them and his sharp jaw even tighter than usual as he narrows his eyes at his younger brothers. Again.

“How many times? I’ve told you to _stop,_ for Merlin’s sake—”

“Aw, poor prefect Percy,” sniggers one of them, Marcus can’t tell which.

The other twin elbows him and feigns horror. “Why, Georgie, he’s not a prefect anymore, how could you forget? He’s _head boy,_ humungous bigot, we can’t possibly argue with him now.”

“Just—” Percy grinds his jaw so tightly that Marcus is surprised the tendon in his neck hasn’t popped yet. “Stop jinxing first years. It’s not hard. Or I’ll write to mum.”

“Ohhhhh noooo, you hear that Freddie?”

“I’m trembling in my robes.”

Marcus shoulders his way past them, sending an “out of the way you little shits” over his shoulder and stops in front of Percy. “You busy?”

“Aw look at that,” comes a leering voice from behind him. “Prefect Percy’s found a friend—shame he’s got troll blood, but I suppose he’s dumb enough to wanna listen to you talk! Or I bet he’s here to get you to do his homework again.”

“Get lost, Fred,” snaps Percy. “Back to your common room before I start taking more points away.”

They leave, and Marcus frowns.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Percy says, arms folded. “Don’t touch my siblings.”

“They were being dicks.”

“That’s just how they are,” says Percy, and he looks very tired.

“Yeah? Well, they shouldn’t. They’re little shits.” Marcus suddenly doesn’t like the expression on Percy’s face, like he’s wishing he were somewhere else. And when he says that he’d hit Fred and George again he means it, because they’re little shits and they don’t deserve Percy’s time because they flick off all his concerns like flies, but Percy’s face darkens and he snaps “Don’t you fucking dare hit my brothers.”

“Well, you just stand there and take it—”

“Just shut up Marcus, alright? We’re just different.”

“And? They shouldn’t be giving you shit every second of the day, fucking hell—”

“Yeah?” Percy folds his arms. “It’s just sibling rivalry. I don’t know why the fuck you care anyway. You just hate them because they’re going to win the Quidditch house cup this year.”

“That’s not fucking true,” and it’s not, because somewhere along the way Marcus has realised that he hates the rest of Percy’s family because they all seem to treat him like shit however much he frets about them.

“Well it is, isn’t it? All you care about is your fucking Quidditch. What do you want anyway?”

“What do you mean what do I want?”

“I was having a conversation, you interrupted me.”

“Am I not allowed to talk to you?”

“Listen, do you want something or not? I’ve got an essay to write and—”

“Nothing,” he says, rudely. “I get it; I’m wasting your precious studying time now. Won’t be a bother, Weasley.”

Percy’s jaw shuts with a click and he strides off, Head Boy robes billowing behind him, and Marcus storms the other way, feeling indescribably irritated because that really wasn’t an argument but he still feels like Percy’s pricked something under his skin. And he can’t help remembering the stupid Weasley twin’s comments— _“dumb enough to want to hear you talk”—_ and he’s never cared about the troll comments before, but when he can’t help feeling like Percy’s fucking ashamed to be associated with him—

Marcus gets into a fight with Oliver Wood during Quidditch practise, for no reason other than it takes his mind off a lot of things. There’s a crunch when he breaks Wood’s nose and he’s pretty sure that the warm stuff flowing down his chin is blood.

And it’s just his luck that Percy Weasley is the one supervising the detention. Percy yells at him for a solid 10 minutes before Marcus finally snaps and starts yelling back, and he’s in such a foul mood when Percy leaves that he nearly breaks Oliver Wood’s nose again.

And he doesn’t know quite how it happens but at some point, he ends up with Wood’s chest pressed to his and a tongue in his mouth. It’s hard and fast and emotionless. They don’t hear Percy coming back, and Marcus gets yelled at again, so he shoves past him and storms away.

Percy comes back to the dorms half an hour later, and Marcus stares at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge him.

“Your lip is still bleeding,” he snaps.

“Does it look like I give a flying fuck?”

“ _Episkey.”_

“Ow! You dick.” He finally sits up. “What’s your problem, Weasley?”

“What do you mean what’s my problem?” he seethes, and Marcus really doesn’t know what he’s so angry about. “A 7th year fighting—over Quidditch of all things—”

“Just shut the fuck up Weasley, will you? Don’t fucking tell me I’m a disgrace to my house one more time. It’s like you care.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t care about.”

And just like that, Percy’s swept the curtains shut around his bed and Marcus is left staring at the ceiling again, wanting to punch something.

***

It feels like these days, all he and Percy do together is shout at each other. He’s received a P on his most recent charms essay again, and Percy’s unimpressed.

“If you’d just _try_ Marcus—”

“You think I’m not? Trying? It’s not my fucking fault I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid—”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, stop lying to my face, why the hell are you still doing this if I’ve not got a chance?”

“You know what? I don’t know. You’re not even _trying_ —”

“Fuck off, fuck off, I swear to god, get out of my face!” Marcus doesn’t know what the hell’s coming out of his mouth any more but he’s mad. He’s vaguely aware of stepping closer to Percy, and vaguely aware that Percy hasn’t stepped away, and he’s worried he’ll snap and hit him if he doesn’t go away. “Not everybody is like you, perfect fucking Percy! Fucking stuck up, get your head out of your arse, then maybe your fucking family might actually talk to you—”

In the end, it’s Percy that hits him first, with a silent hex that makes him fall to his knees and by the time he comes to his senses, Percy’s gone.

***

Montague is late for their next Quidditch practise and Marcus thinks nothing of his crumpled shirt and bruised lips because Montague’s always been a bit of a player. He does mind very, very much though, when Derrick snickers something about the Head Boy really knowing how to order people around, if the limp Montague’s got is any indication. And Percy’s got no right to be banging members of Marcus’ team so hard they can’t walk, what when they’ve got a game to practise for.

So if anything, it’s Percy Weasley’s fault that he actually listens to the Malfoy git and agrees to dress up as a fucking dementor of all things. He tunes out Percy’s yelling with a smirk (it’s becoming familiar now, and at least Percy actually looks at him when he’s shouting) and tries to ignore the dark bags under his eyes. He’s probably been up studying too late again.

***

“What’s up with you and Percy?” asks Adrian, as Percy storms away from the breakfast table.

Marcus digs into his eggs with perhaps a little more vigour than necessary. “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about, mate.”

“Don’t bullshit. Is it because he shouted at you for snogging Oliver Wood?”

“That’s not what he was mad about,” says Marcus, vaguely. “It was the fighting—”

“Seemed like that was what he was mad about to me.”

“We shout at each other all the time Adrian, we’ve never seen eye to eye.”

“Yes, you did.”

Somewhere along the way, it occurs to Marcus that Percy shouts all the time because he worries all the time, and somewhere on the way to class, he remembers that Adrian said Percy was mad because he kissed Oliver Wood. But he never did get the chance to think about the implications behind any of it because Fred Weasley was throwing a trip jinx at him and he was retaliating and Percy was shouting again, for fuck’s sake, and Marcus really wanted to slam him against a wall (to do what with him, he didn’t know) and then there was a Quidditch match to worry about.

He gets a kick out of it every time one of the Weasley twins are hit by a bludger and laughs when one of them nearly falls off his broom, thanks to Marcus. It’s a dirty, dirty game and Marcus loves every second of it, and comes out full of adrenaline even if they lost. Fuck it. They’ve won many times before. Besides, he knows Wood will come looking for him later on and that will help him let off some steam, because with Wood there’s no emotion, only sensation, and they’re both wound so tight with adrenaline, and Wood likes being roughed up a bit. Besides, he’s more on edge and raring to not think, especially after Percy didn’t even shout at him after the match, didn’t even acknowledge him any more than to deliver a few cold words about his sportsmanship, and didn’t even stay to hear Marcus’ reply.

It’s not a great night to be out in the castle though, not when all the students are evacuated to the hall and he gets interrupted halfway through an excellent blowjob.

“Marcus!” there’s a shock of red hair that stands a head taller than everyone else shoving its way towards him. Percy looks stricken.

“What? What’s going on? Why is everyone in the hall?”

“Where the hell _were_ you?” he fumes, and Marcus feels his hackles rising, about to retort, but he sees the disarray of Percy’s clothes (he sleeps shirtless normally, so he’s not done up the top three buttons of his shirt in his haste and his sweatpants are slung low on his waist) and the panic in his eyes and decides to give it a rest.

He grabs Percy’s wrists to steady him. “I’m fine Percy, but what’s going on?”

“Sirius Black,” he runs a hand through his hair distractedly, and Marcus resists the urge to smooth it down. “He fucking broke in somehow and nearly stabbed Ron—”

“He’s alright?” and Marcus can’t believe he’s genuinely more concerned about a Weasley than he is about the fact that there’s a _mass murderer_ in the castle but whatever. Percy’s always done funny things to his head.

“Yeah. Merlin, Marcus, I woke up and you weren’t in your bed and I thought—”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You fucking idiot,” he snaps, tugging at Marcus’ collar to hide the hickey developing there. Marcus blushes. “You blithering fucking idiot.”

“I’m sorry,” replies Marcus, finding that he actually means it.

Percy touches his cheek once, then he’s off, back straight as usual, calm and composed as he carries out his head boy duties. Marcus can’t sleep that night, and keeps watching Percy’s tall, slim profile, whispering quietly to the head girl in the dark.

***

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done but it’s worth it. Percy is frowning, bent over an enormous roll of parchment, and Marcus really wants to lean forwards and smooth the creases on his forehead with his thumb. He doesn’t.

But he does force himself to swallow his pride as he sets his quill down, and tries to stop biting his lip with nerves. Percy’s still here, after all this time, after all their arguments, doing his homework with one Marcus Flint and he’s the only reason Marcus is passing. He’s still offering his time to help Marcus, even though he’s been a dick recently.

“I’m sorry,” he says, abruptly, and Percy drips ink all over his essay in surprise, his blue eyes wide and off-guard behind horn-rimmed glasses.

“For what?”

“I’ve been an arse,” he says, studying the callouses on his palms. “And I’m sorry.”

Percy regards him for a long moment and finally puts his quill down. “You’re apologising?”

“Well yeah,” Marcus suddenly doesn’t know where to look. “I thought you were supposed to be smart. That’s normally what it means when people say _sorry_ , and while we’re here, can I thank you as well? For putting up with me? I know I’m stupid, I’m sorry I’m slow and for taking up so much of your time and you really don’t need to do this—”

“Marcus.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up,” and he’s got a small smile on his face and the creases are out of his forehead. For a wild moment, Marcus wants to throw everything to the wind and just kiss him already, but he’s not a Gryffindor and knows that would be a stupid idea.

“I’m sorry too,” says Percy, and he’s suddenly blushing. Marcus doesn’t know what for, so he asks.

“I’m not patient,” Percy admits. “I’m not patient and I’m too focussed on myself and I know that people think I make them feel stupid on purpose even when they’re not and I don’t notice when I’m talking too much and the conversation is boring and _fuck_ I’m just so impatient all the time—I’m sorry for being so harsh and shouting at you—”

And he really, really needs to stop and Marcus is really at the end of his tether, so close to snapping and just pulling Percy’s face into his hands and snogging him senseless right there in the library, but that would ruin everything. He’s got the anxious little crease in between his eyebrows again and his red hair glows copper in the late afternoon sun and his fingers are drumming on the desk in the way that really used to piss Marcus off when they were younger.

“Percy,” he says softly. “Shut up. You’re perfect.”

And maybe it’s his disarming honesty that catches him off guard, but Percy actually takes a break in his sentence to stare.

“What? No, I’m not. Were you even listening to a word I just said?”

“Yeah, the waffle about being boring and stuck up? I mean, you’re not wrong. But you’re an alright bloke all the same.”

Percy huffs a shaky laugh and picks up his scruffy quill, twirls it once in his fingers and places it back down, perfectly parallel to his parchment. “I—thanks. I guess. But I’m sorry anyway. About all the shouting and all our arguments. I’m just—”

“You worry too much.”

“I’m sorr—”

“Don’t you fucking dare apologise, Weasley.”

“But I am sorry. I’m impatient and it pushes people away. But I just—”

Marcus looks up. “You’re always worrying because you always care,” he says softly. He’s toeing a line here, past levels of civil apology, and into the lines of an actual conversation about _feelings._ Between Marcus Flint, the block-headed, thick-skinned, callous Quidditch captain and Percy Weasley, the most uptight bloke in the entire school who never loses his demeanour. It’s so surreal he almost laughs, but Percy looks so vulnerable in the moment, without his business-like mask, that he can’t. This Percy looks young, and this Percy trusts Marcus Flint enough to let his guard down.

And it makes Marcus a little sad when it occurs to him that Percy really doesn’t have many people to turn to in this world, when normally everyone else relies on him thanklessly.

“Thank you,” he says again, but doesn’t add anything else on the end even though there are a hundred words he wants to say, because even he doesn’t know what they are. And in the end, he’s too Slytherin to bare his soul to anyone, so he contents himself with letting Percy Weasley run away with just a tiny bit of it.

***

Percy writes to him over summer, and Marcus feels kind of light when he sees his familiar block-capital print, polished to perfection, and knows he’s grinning like an idiot when he opens the letter and sees his scrawl inside. The stupid smile falls off his face though, when his father walks into the dining room. Marcus stuffs the letter in his pocket and resumes eating his scone with a poker face, safe in the knowledge that Percy Weasley has gone through the trouble of writing to him, and Percy Weasley will be at the Quidditch World Cup.

***

If someone asked him to recount the exact series of events that led him to this stage, Marcus wouldn’t have been able to. Everything was kind of blurry, first from the adrenaline high that carried him through the world cup, right up past the moment Terence Higgs pulled out a couple of bottles of firewhiskey—and by that time, Marcus was sloshed out of his mind in the middle of the woods with his mates. Adrian was wearing one of Percy’s awful cardigans while he bitched about this random witch his parents were trying to get him married to, Terence Higgs was puking in a bush and Bole was laughing at him, and Percy Weasley was right next to Marcus, looking composed as ever, the red spots on his cheeks the only indication that he’d had anything to drink.

One second, Marcus is trying (and failing) to stop staring at Percy’s arse in those tight muggle jeans (must have been Adrian’s, because there was no way he’d buy something so sinfully tight) and in the next, that arse is in his hands and Percy’s pressing him to a tree and their lips are joined together.

Every nerve on his skin seems alive, despite the hazy alcohol-induced fog in his mind, and it feels like every vein is pumping with pure dopamine. And _fuck_ even though he’s drunk (however calm he looked before, Percy Weasley is most definitely drunk because there’s no way he would be kissing Marcus otherwise) he’s a bloody good kisser and seems to be doing everything he can to drive Marcus insane.

He can’t get enough of the hard press of his lean torso against his, and hell, even his crotch is hot and hard against his own. Percy can do things with his tongue that draws embarrassing noises out of his throat, and his mouth is hot and demanding and wet and Marcus’ knees are on the verge of giving out.

Percy leans back a little, panting hard, eyes bright and intense and he nearly moans again.

“Percy—”

In the moment, he might have said a million things he’d regret later, but there’s a bang and both boys whip around. Adrian has disappeared by now and Higgs is snoring on the ground.

There’s another bang, and jeering and laughing, and Marcus thinks he can see smoke rising at the edge on the woods.

 _“Rennervate!”_ Percy snaps, and Terence blinks blearily. “Get up.”

And suddenly, everything good drains away from Marcus and leaves him ice-cold because he has a feeling he knows what’s going on in the campsite. He takes off running blindly, Percy crashing behind him, and they burst out and there’s fucking fire everywhere and there are figures in masks parading around with muggles being tortured over their heads.

Percy’s white as a sheet as he mouths something that looks like _my family_ and disappears into the crowd without a second look back. Marcus tries to reach for him because it’s dangerous, for fucks sake, but he’s gone. Just like that.

Marcus goes to Romania with his new Quidditch team and Percy rises through the ranks in the ministry and neither of them try contact each other again. Because Percy might have been sorted into Slytherin, but his father wasn’t wearing a mask that night and never will be.

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 (when i get around to writing it) will feature them during the war and the angst that comes with it and roommates and an actual relationship :O
> 
> thanks for reading, leave me kudos, lmk if you liked it & constructive criticism is always appreciated!


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